


The Whole World's On Your Case

by vinewood



Series: You Know I'm Yours For the Taking [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinewood/pseuds/vinewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is addressing the elephant in the room.  She is asking the one question whose answer might just kill and bury any hope and dream Rachel has to study in New York and take the Broadway scene by storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole World's On Your Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to When the Evening Shadows and the Stars Appear.
> 
> I make references to The Ohio State University Medical Center's Department of Neurology in this. More specifically, I mention the Huntington Disease Society of America Center of Excellence (HDSA)and the Madden Parkinson's Center. Each of these disease-specific clinics provides excellent care for persons with movement disorders. I took some liberties with their layout because I have never been to the OSU Medical Center but it's unlikely that they would share a waiting room.
> 
> I don't go into terrible details about Huntington's or Parkinson's but if you've ever had a loved one suffer from either one, as I have, you'd understand the devastating effects of these illnesses.

 

 

**At the age of fifteen, the life of Rachel Barbara Berry changes quickly and forever.**

She sits in the waiting room of the Department of Neurology at the OSU Medical Center reading a dog-earned copy of Albert Camus’ _The Stranger_.

Her daddy sits beside her, left arm trembling.  She’s not disturbed by this; in fact, Rachel’s become quite accustomed to Daddy’s constant shaking.  She reaches out for his hand in the hopes of steadying him emotionally, if not physically, when daddy’s right hand gives an unexpected jerk and sends her book flying to the floor.

His face flushes with embarrassment and frustration so Rachel pats his hand, kisses his cheek and turns to pick up her paperback.  She is surprised when she spots her novel in the hands of one of her high school bullies’ hands.

Slim, tanned hands thumb through the pages before closing the tome and holding it out.

“Thank you,” Rachel says.  She takes back her book and settles it in her lap.

Across the waiting room, she spots her tormentor sitting beside her own father.  Not a minute later, they are approached by a doctor who says, kindly as he possibly can, “Dr. Lieberthal? We’ll see you now.”

She jumps to her feet and helps Daddy get up, then watches as he is led away into an exam room.  She registers someone saying, “Dr. López? Please follow me.  The doctor will see you now,” but she doesn’t turn.  She simply sits down and opens her book.

Rachel is ten pages into the chapter when the Cheerio plops down into Daddy’s chair.

“Please don’t say anything.”

Rachel closes her book and meets the pleading gaze of McKinley High School second-in-command.  “I would never,” she assures the cheerleader.

Santana López nods her head.  “Thank you,” she says.  She gestures towards the examination rooms.  “Which…?”

The question needs not be completed; Rachel understands perfectly.  “HDSA,” she answers.

Santana lets out a deep breath.  “Madden,” she counters.

Rachel allows herself to soak up the information.  Both she and Santana sit together, waiting for doctor fathers whose careers have been cut short by movement disorders.  She lightly pats the cover of her novel.

“My dad’s a neurologist,” Santana reveals.  She smiles sardonically.  “Pretty fucking ironic, right? He’s mentioned that there are some promising trials for Huntington’s.”

“Yes,” Rachel says.  “My daddy is keeping a close watch on the HD research.  I’ve become quite adept at interpreting articles and data in medical journals myself.  I suppose this skill might come in handy one day.”  Rachel sighs.  “You don’t have that worry.”

Santana leans back and clasps her hands together, resting them on her lap.  “You’d be surprised.  I run a fifteen percent risk.”

Rachel tilts her head slightly and raises an eyebrow.  “Fifty.”

Santana bites her lip.  “Do you know yet?”

“No.”  Rachel shakes her head.  Santana is addressing the elephant in the room.  She is asking the one question whose answer might just kill and bury any hope and dream Rachel has to study in New York and take the Broadway scene by storm.  “No, I don’t.  It is unethical to perform the test on someone under the age of eighteen.  After that, the option is left up to my discretion.”

“ _Do_ you want to know?”

For a minute Rachel feels as though all sound has ceased.  As if all the air has disappeared.   _This_ , she thinks, _is_ truly _the million dollar question_.  Not ‘ _do you have an incurable, debilitating fatal illness’_ but rather, ‘ _do you even_ want _to know if you’re a ticking time bomb_?’

She feels the warmth of Santana’s hand as it settles atop one of hers.  “It’s okay,” the Cheerio says, “you don’t have to answer.  It’s an unfair question.”

Overcome with a sudden sense of boldness, Rachel laces her fingers through those of her companion.  The two sit quietly, hands clasped together.  It isn’t until the familiar sound of shuffling fills Rachel’s ears nearly an hour later and her father is led back into the waiting room, that the diva breaks the silence.

“I’m not sure if I want to know,” she says softly.  “I don’t think that I’m brave enough to accept the answer.”

Rachel stands.  Santana has yet to let go of her hand so the small brunette glances at her schoolmate.  The Cheerio raises her chin and her dark brown eyes meet Rachel’s.

“You’re the bravest person I know, Rachel,” Santana states.  Her voice is clear and loud and true.  “Don’t kid yourself otherwise.  And never let me try to change your mind.  Because ten years from now I have no idea where I will be but I know, I fucking _know_ , that you’ll be in your apartment in New York, looking at your Tony.”

___________________________________________________________________________

  
Rachel expects for Santana to disavow any and all knowledge of their interaction when they get back to school.  She is pleasantly surprised, some might say stupefied, when the cheerleader walks up to her while she’s at her locker Monday morning and offers her a Lima Bean coffee cup.

Rachel raises an eyebrow as she takes the cup.  “Good morning, Santana.  While I’m extremely grateful for the drink I must ask what exactly prompted this sudden display of…camaraderie.”

“Friendship,” Santana corrects.  She sips at her own beverage.  “Look, we don’t really see eye to eye on most things; that’s probably due to our upbringings.  But you and I…your dad’s a brilliant oncologist with a shittastic, neurodegenerative, hereditary disease.  And my dad is a kick-ass neurologist with a different but equally fucked up shitty, neurodegenerative disease.”

Rachel nods lightly.  She leans against the cold metal of the locker.

“I have friends, _best_ friends, but even if they knew what was happening, neither of them would understand.  No one ever _could_ , not without having to go through it themselves,” Santana continues.  “But you do.  I’m not promising that I’m going to hold your hand and sing Disney songs about how the world is brighter ‘cause we have each other and shit.  But sometimes my dad spills food on his shirt when we’re having dinner.  And sometimes I get scared that he’s still driving.  And I just…I think you-”

Rachel smiles wistfully.  “I get it,” she says.  She sips at her coffee and raises the cup to Santana.  “Peace offering? Ice breaker?”

The taller brunette presses her back against the locker beside Rachel’s.  “Neither. Both.  I have a feeling that your household, like mine, now basically runs on caffeine.”  Santana pushes off the wall and hitches her duffel higher up on her shoulder.  “Consider the coffee a promise.  You can come to me when you’re overwhelmed, even when you need help caring for your dad, and I’ll do the same with you.”

Rachel taps the lid of her coffee cup against that of Santana’s.  “Deal.”

The hallway is crowded.  At one end of the hall, Quinn gapes at Santana’s sudden personality transplant while Brittany stares in confusion.  At the other end, Kurt clutches to Mercedes in horror and Tina looks around, convinced that she is being Punk’d.

____________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Glee practice is tense, even four and a half weeks later.

Santana takes her customary seat in the back rafters.  Rachel sits in her usual chair up front.  Despite the out of place show the brunettes gave over a month before, the two rarely speak while at McKinley.

The stress of finding out exactly _what_ the fuck is up is getting to the gleeks, particularly two blondes dressed in red, a tall and awkward footballer and a boy dressed in designer threads.  When Mr. Schue leaves the room to make photocopies- _would it kill him to be prepared for once?_ Rachel thinks to herself- Quinn assumes the Head Bitch position; she jumps to her feet and stands in front of the club, arms folded across her chest.

“Santana!” she says.  The brunette in question turns her head lazily and flips her the one finger salute.  “Fuck you, too.  Where did you sleep last night?”

Santana raises an eyebrow.  She can see Puck turn towards her out of the corner of her eye.  “The hell? Are you policing my bed habits now, Q? What’s it to you? And better yet, how do you even know that I wasn’t home last night?”

Quinn frowns.  “I drove past your house on my way home and your car wasn’t there.  But you know where I _did_ spot it? Parked in Man Hands’ driveway! What are you doing, López? Do you even care that you’re totally messing up your rep, Brittany’s rep and, by extension, _my_ rep by being seen with Treasure Trail?”

The insults hurt, though Rachel will never show it, never give Quinn the satisfaction if she can help it.  Santana knows this and it makes her mad as hell on her little diva’s behalf. She sits up straight and squares her shoulders as though gearing up for a fight.

“Listen here, Blondie.  First of all, you’re gonna apologize to _Rachel_ for those stupid nicknames right the fuck now if you don’t want me to punch you flat out on your ass,” Santana orders.

“What! I’m not apologizing to anyone!” Quinn sputters.  “I’m not going to be nice to the pushy, hawk-nosed midget trying to worm her way into my relationship.”

Santana takes three seconds to rush from the top of the rafters, cross the floor and shove Quinn back into the piano, hard.  The blonde captain attempts to push back but Santana’s grip on her arms is strong, and Quinn knows she’ll have bruises in the morning.  Behind them, Noah is making sure Finn remains in his seat and doesn’t hurt Santana by pulling her away with his boorish, behemoth hands.

“I told you to fucking quit it, already,” Santana growls.  “’Sides why the fuck do you care so much? I know it’s not about your rep, and it sure as hell isn’t about Frankenteen! What, do you wish it was _you_ who shares Rachel’s bed at night?”

The room goes still.  Quinn’s eyes narrow and she shoves Santana off of her and slaps her.  Strangely enough, Santana doesn’t seem upset.  If anything, the brunette is wearing an expression of deep satisfaction.

“I fucking _knew_ it!” Santana smugly attests.

“You’re a lying, manipulative, whoring bitch,” Quinn snarls as pushes Santana back again and raises her hand.

Rachel stands and walks over to the two top Cheerios, stepping between them and effectively ending the physical confrontation.  She remains silent as she takes Santana’s hand in hers and pulls the Latina towards her.  Santana turns to face Rachel; her cheek is reddening and there is a distinct possibility there might be a light bruise forming.

“You’re a dumbass,” Rachel utters.

Santana shrugs a shoulder.  “Awesome compliment, Rachel.   _Gracias_.”

Rachel rolls her eyes at the facetiousness she detects in Santana’s voice.  “Come.  We must get an ice pack for your face from the nurse.  We wouldn’t like for a bruise to mar the loveliness of your cheekbones; they really are one of your most attractive attributes.”

Santana and Puck each raise an eyebrow.  Puck is not all shocked to hear the hottest brunettes at McKinley flirting; he knows that once Santana takes you in as one of her own, she can be counted on to 1) protect you; 2) stand up for you; and 3) hit on you relentlessly for shits and giggles.  Apparently, Santana now thinks of Rachel as hers.  And Rachel doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Shit, whatever.  They make one fine as hell, spank bank mental picture.

“My cheekbones? Really, Rachel? _That’s_ what is most ‘attractive’?” Santana questions.  She runs a hand up her body, from knee to shoulder.  “Legs? Ass? Tits?”

Rachel waves her free hand.  “All quite lovely, yes,” she counters, “though in my honest opinion, I much prefer these.”  Rachel touches two fingers to Santana’s mouth.

Santana parts her lips and draws in Rachel’s middle finger with her tongue, wrapping her mouth around the digit and nipping it gently with her teeth before releasing it.  The two stand before ten other glee club members, a silent pianist and the five students who make up the Jazz Band for a minute with matching smiles on their faces before Rachel lightens the mood with an, “ _Ew_.”

Santana laughs and draws the diva into an embrace.  Rachel returns the hug and wipes her finger on Santana’s Cheerio top.

“Let’s go home, yeah,” Santana suggests.  “We both have First Aid kits at our houses.”

Rachel nods.  “That sounds wonderful.”

___________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Saturday afternoons are times for relaxation at the Berry-Lieberthal household.

After attending Shabbat morning services at Temple Beth Israel-Shaare Zedek, Rachel and her daddy head home to consume a light lunch and spend the hours leading up to dinner sitting in their upstairs library, consuming literary tome after literary tome.  Rachel pulls out her daddy’s old records and plays them on the record player that sits in the corner table.

Dad is away on business _again_ , as per his new routine.  Rachel is glad that her daddy’s former Head Nurse often stops by to help with the cooking because neither Joel nor Rachel are very useful in the kitchen.  With the exception, of course, of Rachel’s baking because the cookies she makes are legitimately delicious.

Today, Daddy hasn’t been feeling all too well and is lying down in his bedroom.  His symptoms are much more severe; both hands are now experiencing the jerky movements associated with Huntington’s chorea.  Rachel buries her fears of HTT, trinucleotide repeats and chromosome 4 deep inside and presents her best face to her daddy.  It’s an act, sure, but she’s an actress, a damn good one, and if putting on a show of acceptance, solidarity and calm helps her daddy feel better about being abandoned by his life partner, experiencing an early death and potentially passing down faulty genetics to her, then Rachel will put on the best show in the world.

Rachel switches out the absurdist literary stylings of Albert Camus for something a little more enjoyable and a little less substantial.  She is halfway through Suzanne Collins’ _The Hunger Games_ when there is a knock on the door.

Rachel expects it to be Nurse Linda so she keeps plowing through Katniss’ surprisingly intriguing storyline.  “Yes?” she prompts.

“Hi.  Can we talk?”

Rachel looks up from her book to find Quinn Fabray standing before her.  The blonde shifts nervously from one foot to the other.  Rachel sets down her book and gestures to the chair across from her.

“Sit,” she says.  “What would you like to talk about, Quinn? Although I should warn you that if you’ve come here to lecture me about what you perceive as my dubious morality or barrage me with insults, I will immediately show you to the door.  Forcefully, if need be.”

Quinn shakes her head.  “No.  No, it’s nothing like that, Rachel.”

Rachel holds Quinn’s troubled gaze for a minutes before allowing herself to relax into the soft fabric of her chair.  “Okay.  In that case, to what do I owe this visit, Quinn?”

Quinn settles her hands in her lap.  She twists her fingers, dropping her gaze to her lap.  “I spoke with Father Robert,” Quinn begins.  Her chin quivers for a moment before she schools her expression back into one of restraint.  “I spoke to him because…Because Santana was right.  In the glee room.  She was right.”

Rachel tries to blink away the shock that is sure to be present on her face.  She takes several deep breaths in an attempt to steady her heart rate.  “Uh…well, that is certainly surprising.”

Quinn nods.  “Yeah, I know.  That’s…I like you, Rachel.”  Her voice is hurried, words topple from her lips.  “I like girls and I couldn’t face that for so long because of my dad and my mom and the Church.  And I couldn’t disappoint God, Rachel.  I just couldn’t.  And this fucking homophobic town kept pushing me to become who they need me to be: a popular, godly, _straight_ cheerleader who dates the quarterback.  But I can’t hide it anymore.  I don’t _want_ to hide it anymore, even if I get bullied and Slushied like Kurt.

“So I talked to Father Robert because I wanted him to know that I’m gay and that even if the Church says that I’m going to hell for it, I’m not going to try and hide it anymore.  And he…he said that I’m _not_ going to go to hell.  He said that God already knew my sexuality because He made me that way.  Father Robert was the one who told me I should come see you to explain.”

Rachel smiles kindly.  “I applaud you and your bravery, Quinn, and I-”

“Are you dating Santana?” Quinn interrupts.

Rachel’s brow furrows in confusion.  “No, Quinn, I am not dating Santana.”

Quinn sighs in relief.  “Good,” she says, “Would you…I mean, I like you and I think that we could-”

“Please, Quinn, don’t,” Rachel says.  She picks at a loose thread on the arm of her chair.  “You’re smart and lovely, and now that I know your reason for mistreating me I see you in a more compassionate light.  But I’m not ready to be in a relationship right now.”

“Is it because I’m a girl?” Quinn asks.

Rachel shakes her head.  “No! While I do not consider myself to be a lesbian, I have been attracted to women before and I don’t dismiss the possibility of having a female partner at some point in my life.  That is not the issue.  I’m just not ready.  There are too many things going on in my life right now for me to be able to devote the proper time to a boyfriend _or_ girlfriend.”

_Okay_ , she thinks, _I can accept that_.  Quinn smiles wistfully.  “Okay.  I understand.  Thank you for listening to me,” she says.  “And I really, _really_ want to apologize to you for everything that I’ve done to you for the past three years.  It wasn’t fair to you, Rachel, and I’m a horrible person for treating you like I have.  I know that I have a lot to make up for, that me being nice to you now won’t erase the years of the insults, the drawings in the bathroom stalls, the Slushies- oh, God, those stupid Slushies, Rachel, I’m so sorry- but I promise that I’m going to try my best to make it up to you.  I swear it.”

“I believe you,” Rachel says honestly.

Quinn relaxes into her chair.  She glances at the book in Rachel’s lap and raises an eyebrow.  “ _The Hunger Games_?”

Rachel shrugs a shoulder.  “It’s interesting,” she says.  “I seem partial to works about dystopian societies.  One of my favorite books is Aldous Huxley’s _Brave New World_ so…”

Quinn laughs softly.  The two spend the next hour conversing about their secret passions, literature (Rachel’s [and Santana’s as well, though the diva doesn’t mention this]) and photography (Quinn’s).

And suddenly Rachel is grinning brightly at one of Quinn’s anecdotes and the blonde can’t help it and she leans forward and presses her lips against Rachel’s.  It takes Rachel a few seconds to register the kiss due to her surprise and it’s in those few seconds that the door to the library opens and Santana steps inside.

The Cheerios vice-captain lets out a soft gasp as her cheeks begin to color.  Rachel pulls back immediately.

“Santana,” Rachel whispers.

Santana clenches her hands into fists and holds them at her sides.  “I fucking _knew_ it,” she echoes her words from just five days before.  “I knew it!”

Quinn is absolutely still as Rachel scrambles to stand up.  The look that Santana gives Quinn is so hatefully hair-raising, so terribly stomach-turning, that Quinn is convinced that if she were subjected to it for just a few more seconds, the flesh would melt off her face and she would burst into furious, rainbow-colored flames.

But contrary to her expectations, Santana doesn’t fly into a rage and attack her.  Instead, she turns around and walks out of the room.  Her feet tread heavily down the staircase.

Quinn turns to Rachel.  The brunette seems frozen in her spot.  Quinn reaches out and touches Rachel’s arm.

“Rachel?”

Rachel snaps out of her fugue.  She blinks away her embarrassment and when she no longer sees Santana in the room, shakes off Quinn’s hand and rushes out of the room.

Quinn listens as Rachel races down the stairs and flings open the door before running barefoot out into her front yard.  Santana’s car is parked across the street and the Latina is unlocking the door when Rachel crashes into her back and forcibly turns her around.

Quinn stands and walks over to the windows.  She clutches at the drapes as she watches Santana push Rachel away.  The small diva is insistent, though, and cups Santana’s face with her hands, no doubt talking a mile a minute.  Santana is still upset; she shakes her head and tries to step out of Rachel’s hold but the singer pushes her back into her car door and presses all of her five-foot-three-inch frame against the cheerleader, tucking her head under Santana’s chin.

The image of the two brunettes extracts a sob from Quinn.   _Of course Rachel said she wasn’t ready to be in a relationship_ , she thinks, _Rachel is_ _already_ in _a relationship with_ Santana _fucking_ López _, of all people_.

As she angrily wipes at her eyes upon spotting Santana’s arms around Rachel’s waist as the two embrace in the middle of the street with no reservations, Quinn hopes to one day find someone who cares for her as strongly as Rachel and Santana care for each other.  Because Rachel Berry and Santana López are in love with each other.

Even if the two girls are currently too stupid to realize it.

___________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Okay, so he’s all about inclusiveness and whatever but he honestly has no fucking clue what Santana is doing at _shul_.

She’s sitting next to Rachel’s Jewish dad, dressed conservatively (another _wtf_ moment because he didn’t even know that _she_ knew what that word meant) in a dark blue shirt dress that falls to her knees and a pair of closed-toe wedges.  She looks a little uncomfortable and Noah’s sure she knows how out of place she is here.

Beside him, Noah hears his mom, uber-judgmental woman that she is, cluck her tongue at the sight.  He honestly thinks she should mind her own damn business; like, doesn’t God love _everybody_ , regardless of their religion? What does it matter that Santana López (whom he knows to be secretly religious and attend mass every Sunday) is sitting beside two faithful Jews?

Catholicism isn’t, like, _contagious_ or anything.

At the end of Shabbat services, Noah turns to find Santana helping Dr. Berry-Lieberthal up from his seat while Rachel collects their coats and bags.  Dr. Berry’s kinda shaking a bit and Noah knows that he’s got some sort of disease.  It’s not mentioned much at Temple and Rachel doesn’t ever discuss it so he’s not sure what it is or what it means for Dr. Berry.  He _is_ surprised to see that Santana knows the deets, though.

Still, he’s a good Jew so he walks over to help.  He carefully nudges Santana out of the way and holds out his arms so that Dr. Berry can grip onto his forearms.  When the man does latch on, Noah mimics the motion and guides Dr. Berry to his feet.

“Thank you, Noah,” Dr. Berry-Lieberthal says.  “It’s very nice to see you.”

He smiles.  “Likewise, Dr. Berry.”  Noah looks at the two brunettes.  “Rachel.  ‘Sup Santana.  What’re you doing here, dude?”

Santana cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow.  Rachel frowns.

“Noah, please refrain from addressing Santana as ‘dude’.  She is quite obviously a woman and should be referred to in such a manner,” Rachel says.  “Also, Santana is perfectly welcome here.  I attended a lovely service at her church last week and she did me the kindness of accompanying Daddy and me to Shabbat this morning.”

He nods.  “Okay, sure.  Whatever.  Just saying that if you want to avoid the Hebrew Solidarity and Pride lecture from Miriam Puckerman you might wanna split, like, now.”

Dr. Berry laughs a little and takes several steps forward.  Noah guides him out into the aisle where Rachel and Santana each take one of his arms.  He’s just released the poor man when his mother swoops in like some fucking bird of prey.

“Rachel, Joel, it’s nice to see you,” Miriam says.  She glances in Santana’s direction and frowns.  “You looked incredibly lost throughout prayer.”

He’s got to hand it to his ex-girlfriend.  She handles his ma like a champ.  “I’m not Jewish, Mrs. Puckerman.  I’m sure that you haven’t forgotten that I’m a- what was it that you called me, again? Oh, right- a _shiksa_.”

His ma purses her lips.  “Yes, well,” she says imperiously, “maybe you should think about that.  If you’re not adding anything to the service then perhaps you shouldn’t attend.”

Rachel gasps.  “Excuse me, but just who do you think-”

Santana reaches over and grips Rachel’s free hand.  “Rach, just let it go.”

Dr. Berry shakes his head and steps forward, out from Rachel and Santana’s hold.  He is surprisingly steady.  “You are being rude and inappropriate right now, Miriam,” he scolds.  “I would like you to remember that not only are we are a very accepting branch of Judaism, but also that the decision as to who can enter this temple and who can worship here is most certainly _not_ up to you.

“Now, I don’t know what issues you have with Santana, though I can guess, but you are an adult and she is a child, and you do not treat children this way, not in my presence, and especially not a girl that I consider as much of a daughter as my own.  Now, we must get going; Rabbi Shapiro is waiting to meet Santana.”

Getting up to come to Shabbat service on Saturday morning is suddenly completely worth it to see his mother speechless, bested by the Berry-López alliance.  Don’t get him wrong; he loves his ma, legit, but she can get very preachy and critical, especially when it comes to Jewish heritage.  She’s also pretty much hated Santana since the day she caught them making out in his bedroom.

Okay, so Santana had her hand in his pants; but his was all up her skirt and she forgave _him_ , didn’t she? Why all the Latina hate?

Noah gives a mental shrug.  His ma’s still fuming but she deserves it.  Still, he’s not gonna be the one to tell her.

He is, however, going to find the two brunettes at school on Monday.  He can’t think of anybody more badass than those who can shut his mother up.


End file.
